


Gondolin, the Hidden

by Wynja2007



Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Gen, It's still Gondolin and not going to end well folks..., Personification of Cities, Unrequited Love, thecitysmith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-01-31 18:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18597043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/pseuds/Wynja2007
Summary: Under the right circumstances, Cities are born, the living, breathing, feeling personifications of the buildings and streets that bear their names.  Life for a City can be complicated and painful and very, very long...For Gondolin, firstborn City of Middle-Earth, it was also... confusing.





	1. Birth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [telemachus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/gifts).



> With grateful thanks and acknowledgement to thecitysmith for permission to take their wonderful idea from 'Paris Burning' and re-imagine it for Tolkien's Legendarium. As well as the stories here on AO3, many wonderful tales for this inventive and fascinating new concept can be found on tumblr.

The birth of any City requires the blood of three individuals; a woman in childbirth, a warrior, an old person. This is the real reason there were few elven cities; elves were created immortal, and although childbirth and battle hold similar risks for elves as for humankind, old age is not something they know, just the weariness of ages. 

Beautiful Tirion of the musical voice, he was born from the wisdom and sacrifice of one of the Maia, who foresaw the need for Cities, who had heard them sung softly in the Song of Creation, but it had been a brief threnody, growing stronger only when the theme of the rise of Men joined the melody. This one had thought it worth his life to take age upon himself and sit in the tallest tower of the city until the weight of his borrowed years crumbled him to dust that blew away through the open windows to be carried in the high winds across the land. Some settled like a blessing on the streets of Tirion, sparkling and glinting gold in the corners, for this was where his heart had ever dwelt. 

(But some of his life force carried across the continent to fall elsewhere, to prepare the ground for further sacrifices). 

The mother of Fëanor, Míriel Serindë, died shortly after he was born, but the deliberate sacrifice of all her strength to pour it into her fine, bright, doomed son began sooner, so that it was childbirth, his birth that began the process which took her life, and her essence of death was caught by the Maian sacrifice and mingled in the earth, waiting for the birth of the City. A son of Tirion, new to weapons and armour, died at Alqualondë, defending his friends amongst the shipbuilders, weeping as he saw friend turned against friend, brother against brother, and prayed for an end to kinslaying. (The same events saw the birth of Alqualondë from the ashes and flotsam of its broken fleet just a few days later, while Valmar, first of cities in Valinor, was last to gain her personification in the darkness following the silencing of the lamps.)

The Maia’s sacrifice, then, gave three cities the chance to grow and thrive. But this story concerns Gondolin, firstborn city of Middle Earth.

*

He was nearly born from the ice. 

So many deaths, so much emotion, such need, calling out to anyone who might help, the sense of knowing the help sought would not come. The despair, the need, the need.

He stirred in Vinyamar, turning and stretching and testing out the bounds of the dark womb around him, but something held him back, some power outside himself, something with pity in its heart and awareness of his nascent agitation.

Finally, though, it was on the plain of Tumladen when the land shook, and shook, and shook that finally he broke free of the earth and stretched and stood tall, bewildered and exhausted from his difficult gestation and long-deferred birth.

Around him was a wide spread of the greenest grass, crossed with rivulets and streams. Above, the sky was unbearably blue and the sun was warm on his naked back. Around his feet, bursts of colour; Larkspur in bloom. 

He felt a tug, a yearning in his heart, and started to turn, seeking the source, allowing his gaze to roam the landscape. There!

In the middle of the plain, walls of sheer stone rose up, forbidding and stern, beckoning, crowned with the towers and turrets and fine-made walls of Gondolin itself. Young as he was, new as he was, he could taste the people, their hopes and fears, their loves and their rivalries, the sense of relief, the sense of dread, and he saw himself reaching out to nurture them…

He smiled and set off towards the cliffs.

*

‘My lord? Can you come? There is something happening.’

Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Singing Fountains and Captain of the Great Gate nodded and picked up his helm. He followed the sentry from his office – in reality a desk outside the armoury – through the passageways to the lookout point. His companions jokingly referred to it as ‘The Eyrie’, but such an appellation always made Ecthelion shiver; his friend Glorfindel spoke often of how he thought they were not so much blessed by visits from the eagles, birds of Manwë, as spied upon by them…

He repressed a shudder. They were all on edge, the secret city barely finished, the people still so recently arrived that sometimes they missed their way, still, nothing was familiar yet, nothing felt safe and so anything out of the ordinary was a cause for concern. The earthquake, in the night; had it been a warning? A sign that Morgoth was moving in the depths of the earth far away, sending his evil through the ground to shake them, to seek them out…?

There had been deaths that some said boded ill; a warrior, injured on the way and grimly hanging on to life, his wounds healing and breaking, had finally succumbed to injury and breathed his last on the plain. Then an elleth nobody had known was here had fallen, somehow, from the walls, and the saddest thing, the saddest thing, was that she had been about to give birth, but it was too late; the child had quickened, and died before any help could come. Ecthelion made a mental note to try to find a faster way down to the plain than the current system of tunnels and stairs and slopes with defensive corners and reminded himself he was not a superstitious elf, he knew a sign from the Valar would not come as an earthquake or an unexpected death, but as a formal, direct approach, a message or a visitation. After all, there had been another death, that of one of the oldest, earliest-born elves, who had travelled to Valinor and back again, and who had become world-weary and had said surely, this was what it felt to be old, and had faded, just two days ago. No. Not all deaths were bad, sad though they were for elves.

Ecthelion pulled his long, black hair back out of the way with one hand and passed under the archway that led to the lookout post before sliding his helm into place with the other; it was a fine piece of workmanship, decorative and elegant, and part of the uniform, but it was also topped with a high silver spike that sometimes got in the way and to constantly scrape it against the stonework was embarrassing.

At the lookout, the sentry saluted smartly, hand on heart, and stood aside. Ecthelion passed through to find the narrow ledge crammed with his warriors, all with bows drawn, arrows nocked and trained on a figure that seemed to be erupting from the greensward.

Ecthelion caught his breath; they were all jittery, fearing discovery, exposure. The king’s standing orders were to shoot first and question later; but there was something about the way this individual moved, the way Ecthelion’s heart had lifted…

‘Sir?’ The voice of the captain of the archers was tremulous, tight. ‘Orders, sir?’

Ecthelion stared at the figure. Tall, strong, gleaming in the sunlight with golden hair that shimmered and fell in waves to his waist, naked and obviously unarmed, he had begun to move slowly towards the cliffs below the lookout post. Slowly, but not cautiously; it was more that the individual was unused to walking, his feet sliding through the grass as if the landscape was flowing around him, carrying him forward.

As if he was part of the land…

Something, an unconscious connection in Ecthelion’s mind…

‘Send for Lord Glorfindel.’

‘Sir?’

The captain was right to question him; it was against standing orders, the stranger, by rights, should be lying dead and bleeding on the plain by now. But…

‘Keep your weapons on him, but do not fire yet. I think this is not an enemy.’

*

The message: ‘The Captain of the Great Gate demands your attendance, my lord,’ found Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, in the midst of debating with his sisters on the merits of yellow over blue as a colour for the Festival of Spring, so that it was with some relief that he headed out. He paused to collect his sword and helm, slung his bright red cloak across his shoulders, and was on his way to the Great Gate before his sisters even had time to complain.

He had time on the way to consider the summons from his friend, his more-than-friend Ecthelion; the formality, the use of his military title rather than his name or even his House title made it clear that this was not a social invitation. Ah, well. Thel’s duty tour was over soon, and there’d be time then to meet and dine and talk and all that could follow after…

He did not blink as he went from bright sunlight to dark, torch-lit passages as he entered the tunnels leading to the Gate, his eyes adjusting easily, but he did slow his pace as he considered the wording of the summons again. Not a social invitation, fine. But… it was odd. There was no strategic reason that Glorfindel should be needed here; if it was something serious, then Turgon, the king, should be informed. So why call him…?

Well. He’d soon find out.

*

‘Lord Glorfindel, there you are. Take a look and tell me what you make of this, would you?’

No friendly greeting, no ‘Hullo, Findel, old friend,’ no wink, no touch of hand on arm… but even as he assessed this, Findel was making his way to Ecthelion’s side. Together, they looked out. 

Glorfindel spoke first.

‘Company?’ 

The stranger was closer now, so much nearer to the wall that the angle at which the archers had to hold their bows had steepened. One or two of the guards were glancing anxiously at their captain as they strained to keep the target clearly in sight.

‘Apparently so,’ Ecthelion said in an almost-laconic tone. ‘Remind you of anyone? Anything?’

‘The hair, could be mine…’

‘Don’t flatter yourself!’ A whisper, a flash of a grin that made Findel stifle a laugh as Ecthelion continued. ‘He broke free from the greensward and has been making his way towards us steadily ever since.’

The stranger was near enough now to make out features, details. His ears had the pointed tips that all elves had; his eyes seemed to shine and glow and there was something to him that reminded Findel of a long-ago, long-missed lord…

‘Tirion. He reminds me of Tirion the Fair.’ Findel gave a half-sigh, half-laugh. ‘I had thought him a Maia at first, until they explained to me that he was the City, its heart and fëa, walking amongst us.’

Ecthelion nodded. ‘I never met any of the Valinor Cities, but I remembered your descriptions of Tirion the Fair. What do you think?’

‘I think…’ Glorfindel paused, thinking. Every city had its City in Valinor, of course, the embodiment of the settlement, its soul, its streets, its people’s fëar all wrapped up and walking about through its own byways and highways. ‘If he is, then your arrows won’t kill him. But if he’s… what? Newly hatched, newborn? He could be angry, and although he may be vulnerable, he will still be dangerous. And besides, do you think it’s polite to make our first action on meeting him to shoot at him? Turgon’s standing orders be blowed, I think we need to talk to this fellow first, at least. Maybe offer him a pair of leggings before we all go cross-eyes from trying not to look…’

Behind Findel, one of the watch suppressed an anxious laugh; others took it up and a glance around showed several of the archers grinning; the tension was broken, at least.

‘Very well. Send to Stores, spare tunic and leggings…’

‘Extra-long,’ Findel said. ‘And probably extra-large, too.’

*

They argued in official, formal tones about who should take the garments.

‘This is my watch, my lord Glorfindel,’ Ecthelion pointed out. ‘It is my duty, and my responsibility, to investigate.’

‘Yet we all know that if you do so, you will be countermanding your orders, Lord Captain of the Great Gate. This is not my watch-post, and therefore while you may protest my actions, your life would not be forfeit for such disobedience. Nor would mine, since I am simply investigating, and the archers are watching with you in command of them.’

‘Yet the paths and tunnels running to the plain are many and finding the quickest way will be difficult for you; I have the knowledge to reach this… individual more swiftly.’

Suddenly Findel relaxed, grinning.

‘Oh, I know a faster way than the tunnels,’ he said, and vaulted over the parapet wall, the bundled garments tucked under one arm.

Gasps from the guard. Ecthelion shook his head, striding forward to look.

‘The Lord of the Golden Flower has not jumped to his doom, never fear,’ he admonished them. ‘Make way, there!’

Glorfindel was seated on a narrow ledge just below the wall, booted feet dangling over the void as if he cared not a jot for the danger. He glanced up and back at Ecthelion, grinning.

‘If this is our City,’ he said, ‘I’ve nothing to fear. Watch him carefully… Ai, but he looks so young! See how blue his eyes are? Bluer than mine, even!’

‘Never!' Echtelion leaned forward to whisper in Findel’s ear. 'Never was there anyone, nor will be anyone, with eyes as blue as yours, my lord of the Golden Flower!’

Glorfindel grinned, but continued. ‘…And freckles, whoever heard of an elf with freckles…?’

Lifting a hand, he waved to the probable-City.

‘Greetings, down there!’ he called out. ‘I wish to parley, may I join you?’

*

Things were happening; people were clustering, there were… things… sharp, pointy things… arrows, directed towards him. He felt the intention, the wariness, sensed the leader’s hesitation, his unwillingness to  
take life without need. Compassion. It was good, good that one of the first emotions he felt from his people was compassion; somehow, he felt it would form him into a compassionate city…

…but there was fear, and weariness of fear, and he could also sense that these, his people, had been afraid for a long time.

He continued on his slow progress towards the cliffs.

A new arrival, a golden, shining figure, and he felt his heart swell and reach out; this one, whoever he might be, he was precious, he was beloved, he was dear to someone… _he mattered…_

The golden person jumped over the wall and sat, apparently unconcerned about the drop beneath; he could feel that, sense it even as he was aware of curiosity and intelligence, warmth and friendliness. A lifted hand, a wave, a call…

He waved back, looked at the rocks of the cliff and thought of how a person might get from a ledge to the ground in safety. The rocks shifted, slurred, melted and reformed into a stepped pathway down which the friendly golden creature could descend.

A murmur from the watchers above, but the golden one was descending, unfazed by the sudden stairway’s appearance.

The new-born City waited, a stirring of impatience troubling him. But above, there were still pointed things aimed towards him; although he felt strong enough to withstand such minor things as they seemed, and the intent behind them was not malicious, it seemed right to wait here until he knew more.

So much was still unknown, just guesses at the edge of knowledge.

Finally the figure reached the lower steps, jumped down the last two.

‘Hullo! I’m Glorfindel,’ he said, smiling, and there was no doubting the warmth behind the words, the… wonderful, happy feeling… ‘Here; some clothes for you. It’s a bright day, but still a little cool and we didn’t know if you’d be like an elf, or impervious, or what. So. Welcome to Gondolin… you are our City, I take it?’

‘Gondolin. I am Gondolin.’ The new City took the garments, shook them, tried to work them out. ‘This is Gondolin?’

‘This is Tumladen the plain surrounding the city. Look, here, this… you step in, one leg in each side. Sit down, might be easier.’

Gondolin frowned, concentrating, finding out the ways of the clothes. The leg coverings tied in front, and the tunic tied at the neck, and the fabric felt strange against his skin, confining.

‘I am Gondolin. Where are my spires, my towers, my fountains? Ah, I can feel them I can… there are markets and wide squares, armouries and fine houses… it is beautiful!’

‘Well, we like it,’ the golden one said.

Gondolin turned to him, taking him in.

‘Glorfindel. Golden hair, you are beautiful. Bright blue eyes and elegant ears. Strong but not heavy with muscle. You are a fine person.’

Glorfindel laughed.

‘Well, you’re not so bad yourself, you know. Better hair than me, bluer eyes, although Ecthelion says otherwise.’

‘Ecthelion?’ 

The City repeated the name, taking into himself all that he could sense of the bright warrior in Glorfindel’s heart. It was like to his own emotional response to Glorfindel, and he wondered if he would feel for all his citizens as he did now, if it were a normal, usual thing.

‘Yes, Ecthelion, Lord of the Great Gate, amongst other things. You know, you could have got into awful trouble, emerging like that, if it hadn’t been him on duty today; I’ve talked to him of my City, Tirion – my first City, that is. You’re my City now. But what I mean is, there are orders… to protect the city, that’s all, but that all strangers should be… forbidden entry and… not allowed to leave.’

‘This is a riddle. How can one not leave and yet not be admitted?’

Glorfindel shrugged. ‘Orders are for the guards to shoot first and ask questions afterwards…’

‘Another riddle, Glorfindel. For how…?’ Gondolin felt the hard meaning of the phrase, the sense of regret from the glowing, beautiful elf before him, and understood. ‘They would not harm me. No ordinary weapon could harm me.’

‘Well, no. Probably not. But you’re… new. I understand that newborn Cities are more fragile than those who are established. Anyway, that doesn’t matter, what matters is that Thel – Ecthelion, knew of Tirion through me, and wondered it perhaps you were our Gondolin.’ Glorfindel smiled, but his eyes were anxious. ‘Do you mind waiting here while I tell him it’s all right? Then he’ll send for Turgon, probably, our king, and… oh, you’re probably hungry and thirsty. You wait here, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

‘I…’ Gondolin frowned, puzzled at how suddenly he did not want Glorfindel to leave, at how much he wanted to stay at his side. Realisation dawned. ‘I love you, beautiful Glorfindel.’

Glorfindel smiled and twisted his shoulders, as if he felt awkward. 

‘I love you, too. Or I will; you’re my City. And you’ll love all of us; we’re your people. So that’s all right, then. Only it might take a little time, with some of them. It’s been a long and hard road to get here.’

*

‘So…?’ Ecthelion asked as Glorfindel vaulted over the wall and onto the watch platform.

‘If this were my command, I’d stand them down. We have ourselves a City.’ He grinned suddenly, shaking his head as he saw the blank expressions on many of the guard. ‘What that means, essentially, is that Gondolin – or Gondolin, our new city – is important enough, vital enough, that it’s become personified; that individual down there, on the Tumladen – he is our City. He will walk with us, talk with us, share our fears and hopes, support our king. He will feel our pain, and he will strengthen our walls, he will care for us and we will care for him, and we will be the stronger for that. Now, someone should take meat and drink to our City, he will be hungry and he’ll want to meet you all as soon as possible. And if I may make a suggestion, we should send to Lord Turgon and give him the joyful news.’

‘And it is a matter of joy because…?’

Glorfindel clapped Ecthelion briefly on the shoulder, his eyes shining.’

‘Because, my dear Captain of the Great Gate, Cities don’t just happen at random; this means that Gondolin is here to stay!’


	2. Infatuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the City begins to explore the city...

Glorfindel was mistaken, of course; the birth of a city requires blood, and death, and sacrifice, yet even with these its future is not necessarily assured, but to be fair, Glorfindel hadn’t known all that; Tirion had only smiled when asked how he had come to be, smiled and smiled and turned away to sing a new song. But for now, for this moment, Glorfindel believed that with their City beside them, they really could live forever…

*

A message was sent to Turgon, who sent word back; he would come, with an escort, and would meet this Gondolin personified for himself; the king even descended to the plain, although by the usual passages and exits, for while Lord Turgon would leap over any barricade when his people were in danger, for a peace-time meeting on the plain there was no need for such extremes. Glorfindel had used the new stairs to hurry down to where Gondolin waited, to keep him company and, as he had said to Ecthelion, to calm him and answer any questions he might have. (‘They can be a bit rough, when they’re newly-born,’ he’d said. ‘Tirion told me once he’d almost crushed someone’s arm and he was only trying to get their attention and ask a question; it was only the pain he had felt himself that alerted him. So just to be safe…’)

But all went well, at least from Glorfindel’s perspective. He did not know that Gondolin, dressed a little awkwardly in clothes that didn’t quite fit, had been waiting for a surge of heart-pounding affection to arise in him as more of his citizens were introduced, and he had been disappointed when it hadn’t happened, confused that Glorfindel’s assurances hadn’t quite been correct. 

Even so, Gondolin found he liked Turgon, found himself curious and engaged by his manner, and the warriors with the king were bold and strong, and he felt an urge to wrap his walls around them, to swathe them in his strength…

…yet nothing compared to the feelings he had experienced when Glorfindel had smiled at him, the giddy kick when Glorfindel looked at him. Not even when Ecthelion came and bowed, and apologised for not welcoming him as befitted the living heart of the City did he feel anything more than warm good wishes towards him.

‘I understand,’ Gondolin said. ‘You were supposed to shoot me, and then question my remains. I am glad you did not try; I can answer your questions much better as I am…’

The City had found he liked Ecthelion’s bold manners, had been intrigued by the laughing, warm look he shot Glorfindel from time to time, and he began to see… Ecthelion’s response to Glorfindel was much like his own… except… 

Oh, except that Glorfindel turned to Ecthelion with love and joy and delight, and before he had even entered his city, the City knew: he was in love with Glorfindel, but Glorfindel was in love with Ecthelion, and that was just how it was, and would probably always be.

*

The city, when the City got there, was beautiful. They found him a house, looking across one of the many squares, a fountain playing at its centre, saplings planted in the corners by hopeful gardeners, and he smiled and nodded, and when he learned that Ecthelion had designed the plumes of skyward reaching waters, he thanked the ones who had told him, and asked if he could see other examples of Ecthelion’s work, seeking to understand Glorfindel’s love for the Lord Warden of the Great Gate (who was also Lord of the Fountains) through the craft of his hands. There were plenty of willing volunteers who offered to lead him through the city, and so the City went walking with them. He marvelled at the plumes of skywards-reaching waters and the wide paved streets, the towers and the grassy corners, he listened to the plans for the gardens and the walkways, the marketplaces and he felt the love of the people for Gondolin, for him, and he responded, softening the land beneath the toil of the workers, easing the growth of the buildings, putting his strength into the walls and stones and tiled roofs. Together they would make the city stronger, lovelier, and the City revelled in the task ahead.

There seemed no cloud in the sky, that first day, nor in the others that followed. Gondolin walked through the streets, and felt the warmth of the people, he talked with them, he sat with them. He listened to Turgon as the king spoke of the world outside, the great darkness, the troubles that had led him to bring his people here to sanctuary. He learned, and he listened, and he grew in mind, if not in stature, for Gondolin – the city – was bounded and restricted, and so Gondolin, the City, was also trammelled and confined. At times it felt as if he were unborn still, stirring in secret, and yes, he was the Hidden City, the first City of Middle Earth, and somehow he felt alone, so alone, despite the people, his people, all around.

*

One day, after he’d been present in the city for around a week, Glorfindel visited him.

‘Hullo, there, Gondolin,’ he said, smiling. ‘I was wondering how you’ve been getting on. Would you like to come for a walk, or a ride, or something?’

‘I would indeed like that,’ Gondolin said. ‘Whatever you wish.’

‘There’s the Fountain of the King, just finished, another of Thel’s creations. I hear you like his work, and to my mind, it’s beautiful. It’s worth a look, at least.’

‘Then we should go and look at it, should we not?’

It was on the way to the Fountain of the King that it happened; a sudden gasp of pain, and Gondolin folded over, his arm expanding with sudden agony, sharp and sudden, and a bloom of purple and blue spreading under the skin, the bones seemed to deform and twist and it looked very wrong…

‘Are you all right?’ Glorfindel asked carefully.

‘I… do not know, what is…?’

‘I know this from Tirion. If someone is hurt, you feel it. Sorry, it’s one of the things about being a City. Tirion’s people didn’t get injured much, but I saw it happen to him once. I suppose I thought you would know about all this…’

‘How, how could I?’ Gondolin asked through the pain, and Glorfindel nodded.

‘Yes, how could you, really? Sorry, looks like a broken arm to me, we’re still getting occasional training injuries, or work isn’t being done as carefully as it should. Come with me, my home’s not far, I’ll give you a glass of wine and you can sit for a bit. If Tirion’s anything to go by, you’ll heal swiftly, faster than elves, and you’ll soon be at ease again.’

Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the kindness in Glorfindel’s blue eyes as he found cushions to support Gondolin’s arm, perhaps it was that, of them all, Glorfindel wasn’t as… as careful around him, but half way through his second glass of good, red wine, Gondolin interrupted Glorfindel’s story of his youth in Tirion and blurted out:

‘I love you, Glorfindel.’

‘Yes, you do. You’re my City, you love…’

‘…all of my people. But not like… because you are not like, and…’

‘You see, they’ve never met a City before, most of them,’ Glorfindel explained patiently, removing the wine glass from Gondolin’s hand and setting it down. ‘So they’re not quite sure how to talk to you. Or they have met a City, and feel you ought to be giveb the same reverence and awed respect that Tirion received. Only, the thing is, Tirion didn’t want all that. He wanted… wanted to be loved. So I understand, Gondolin, I really do, especially as Turgon intended the city to be a new Tirion for us here. You see, I… well, I have my Ecthelion, he has my heart. But we each of us love many people in our lives; the love for one’s mother does not prevent love for one’s father, for example, and the love of your fëa-mate doesn’t get in the way of loving your parents. It’s just… different, if you understand me?’

‘I think you are kind, but you love Ecthelion more than your City. And so you are trying now to be kind to me, saying you do not love me as you do him. What… what do people do, when this happens?’

‘Oh, now, that is too big a question for me…’ Glorfindel frowned, and thought and shrugged. ‘In my experience, they feel sad for a while, and then they learn to live with the sadness. Elves, you see… we each have our special person somewhere, and when we meet them, we bond for life. Like Thel and I, we’re not married yet, but that’s because it’s not usual for males to do so, and Turgon felt it would be better if we waited until everyone was settled here first. But he’s the one to whom I am bound. Now, how are you feeling?’

‘Better, my arm is... almost as it was.’

‘Yes. Bit of a bruise there, but it doesn’t look as awfully broken as it did at first. I think if you bind it up, that will protect it a little; I’ll get the housekeeper, she’s used to dealing with training injuries and the like.’

*

That night, reclining next to Thel on the sofa in Ecthelion’s rooms with a glass of golden wine in his hand, Glorfindel talked about the incident, Gondolin’s profession of love, and tried to laugh it off.

‘He’s young, he doesn’t really understand what’s going on,’ he said. ‘Tirion’s rather like that, a loving heart and the sort of City to want to wrap you in comfort. But everyone wanted Tirion to be beautiful and remote, they didn’t understand, they felt… threatened, I think. After all, having one’s City walking beside you, talking and laughing and singing… it’s a bit strange at first.’

‘It’s no wonder, however, that Gondolin has fallen for you – you are beautiful and, of course, you look rather alike…’

‘Ah, now, Thel…’

But Ecthelion laughed, shaking his head. 

‘I am teasing, beloved; I know your heart. But should we remind Turgon of his promise, that we might marry once we were here?’

‘Good idea. I’d like that, Thel, to be able to relax more around people. It’s hard, trying not to be too obviously in love with you.’

‘Yes; perhaps if we were permitted more leeway, if we were permitted to show our affection, incidents such as Gondolin’s infatuation would not happen.’ 

Ecthelion’s voice was surprisingly disapproving, and Glorfindel grinned.

‘Not jealous are you, beloved Thel?’

‘Jealous? No, not in the least… although I will confess to a certain… anxiety. After all, the City, though newly born, is powerful; I watched as he created a stairway for you, I have heard tales of how he can ease the work for our brave builders, and if he chose… he could be a potent adversary.’

‘Well, yes. But he’s our City, we are his people. He loves us. All of us. It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure; and as soon as other people start to relax around him, I’ll step back. Really, Thel, it’s fine. It’s you I love.’

‘I know, my golden one. Perhaps I should cultivate Gondolin’s friendship myself, so that he learns to see me as a person, rather than as a potential rival.’

‘Good idea!’ Glorfindel brightened. ‘He likes your work with water; in fact, we were on our way to look at the Fountain of the King when he had his incident…’

‘Incident?’

‘Didn’t I say? Someone in the city had an accident, broken arm I think, and it manifested on the City. He was a bit shaken. Well, I didn’t know he didn’t know how it works…’ Glorfindel gave a shrug. ‘That’s why he ended up in the second-best sitting room with his arm on a cushion…’

‘Second-best, beloved?’

‘Well, the mother was home somewhere, and one or other my sisters; thought if I took him into the best parlour, I’d get a scold… same with the kitchens…’

Ecthelion was silent for a moment, a frown and a smile warring for dominance on his elegant features.

‘You’re telling me, then, that you took the City to your house, when you knew several of your family was home, and…’ The frown won, just. ‘I must tell you, beloved, that the tale of the City’s misadventure was brought to me by an anonymous messenger. In the note it was stated that you had taken the City into your home privately. I think, my beloved, that someone is attempting to cause mischief between us…’  
Ecthelion sighed and gestured Glorfindel closer, put his arm around him. ‘Whomever is at the root of this, Glorfindel, rest assured I shall disregard such rumours. But perhaps a petition to Turgon is in order.’

*  
Turgon, however, was unmoved by the measured arguments from Ecthelion, the impassioned pleas from Glorfindel.

‘We are still too newly settled,’ the king said. ‘Particularly now we have a City to care for, until he is old enough and strong enough to care for us. Now, it may be that, in a few decades we will be more in a position to celebrate your union each to the other. Until then, patience! I am glad I have you here, however, they tell me, Lord Ecthelion, that there is need for an increased watch on the Gate, and the guard are never as keen as when you are there. So your next duty round has been brought forward; you will leave tomorrow. And if there should be any more eruptions from the plain, send to me, your king, before you cry for help to your beloved.’

Ecthelion bowed, his face impassive. At his side, Glorfindel could feel the seething fury that would have been vented, had anyone other than the king spoken so harshly. Knowing it was foolish, still he could not be silent.

‘My lord, Ecthelion knew I’d experience of Cities from when I knew Tirion; he sought to spare you a possible wasted journey…’

‘I knew Tirion also, others also have met Tirion. However, you are the ideal person to act as his guide to the city; spend time with him, answer his questions, introduce him around the Houses...’

‘I am grateful for the honour of this task,’ Glorfindel said through gritted teeth, ‘but as my lord king so rightly points out, there are others here who knew Tirion, also; it is too great an honour…’

‘Yet you were first to speak with our City, Glorfindel. And the resemblance between the two of you has been noted; it will draw people’s attention, it will encourage them to befriend him as they have you. Very well. Let me keep you no longer.’

Ecthelion and Glorfindel bowed and made their exits. Outside, once well-clear of the palace grounds and out of earshot of any interested parties, Glorfindel took in a huge breath, as if preparing to let forth a stream of anger on all that was wrong with Turgon’s orders… instead, he exhaled again, shaking his head.

‘Exactly, my dear,’ Ecthelion said. ‘It is very kind of our king to consider Gondolin’s need for a companion, and quite natural he should select you as best for the task. I am only saddened that I now have no chance to befriend our new City before I leave for my posting. Come, we can, at least, enjoy the day.’

‘Guide, Thel, I’m to be his guide, not companion, and I don’t want you thinking…’

Ecthelion laughed, a musical peal of joy that turned more than one distant head towards the sound.

‘My dear Glorfindel, of course not! But someone certainly wishes to give the impression that I ought to be worried…’ He turned to give Glorfindel an amused glance. ‘And so I must decide whether we ought to let them think I am, or if it were better to continue on, as I am, unconcerned. But that will keep for a later discussion, for I think your new task approaches. You know, he is rather good-looking, but that may simply be his resemblance to you, of course. Now come, we have the rest of the day at least. Let us spend it wisely together.’

**Author's Note:**

> This story is in no way connected to, or dependent on, the amazing 'Hands of stone or hands of tallow' by consumptive_sphinx and our concepts of the City are a little different. But read it, read it anyway.


End file.
